Ely's consciousness returned with a vicious kick to his abdomen, a sharp pain jolting him awake. The scorching sand beneath him seared through his tattered robe, reminding him of his vulnerable state.
"What are you doing here, filthy Drahar?" The words, dripping with contempt, were swiftly followed by another brutal kick.
Ely twisted, striving to rise, his muscles tensing for the effort. But his assailant was relentless, another kick sent him rolling across the sandy terrain, and made him taste blood.
"Answer me, filth. What are you doing here? These are sacred grounds." The disdain in the voice was clear as it neared the struggling Drahar.
Meanwhile, Ely struggled to make sense of the situation. His purpose in coming here was far from noble. As a Drahar, deprived of magi in a realm where it was the only way to power, his choices were limited to disgrace or desperation. He chose the latter, guided by his grandmother's words: You may rob, but only from the dead.
His latest venture, a routine tomb raid, promised magi artifacts and forgotten rituals. However, beneath the ancient graves, he found something far older, an ancient tomb, at least a millennium old, that whispered promises of escape from his cursed existence. Without hesitation, he had plunged into its depths.
Disaster struck when he awoke the malevolent presence resting inside. Accused of desecrating sacred grounds, he fled in terror, only to be cursed by the entity: Ely Drahar, I curse you with the darkest of all abilities, the power to devour the world.
Then, darkness claimed him, and he awakened to the merciless assault by a man fueled by hatred for his kind. What a wonderful day! Before he could muster a defense, another kick landed, and the world slipped away once more.
As Ely regained consciousness, he found himself in a dark, damp cell, the stench of a latrine assaulting his nostrils. It seemed becoming unconscious and waking in unknown places was becoming a disturbing pattern. The lingering pain from the kicks and the burns from lying on the scorching sand were secondary now, overshadowed by the fear of what might come next.
Being captured by those who despised his people was terrifying, made worse by his recent criminal activity. Death seemed a merciful escape compared to the horrors of torture and the prospect of betraying his comrades under duress.
Panic surged within him, the physical pain fading into insignificance. I have to escape!
The sound of a door creaking open cast a sliver of light into the gloom. Footsteps descended the stairs, revealing his captor and two others, their murmurs echoing in the confined space.
"Good, the filth decided to wake up. See guys, I told you I got a tough one," sneered the familiar, loathsome voice.
Ely's heart raced as he saw the third figure, blindfolded and being led down. A chilling realization hit him; this was no ordinary imprisonment. The ropes binding him – a clear sign they deemed chains unnecessary for a magiless Drahar – suggested this was a place for others like him, perhaps a procession of captives.
"Please, let me go," he begged, desperation overflowing in his voice. "I’ll turn myself to the Council. Please, just let me go."
His pleas fell on deaf ears, met only with mocking laughter. "Filth like you should stay out of our streets. Beg louder and maybe we'll pity you."
All except the blindfolded man reveled in mockery. His purpose was far grimmer.
Ignoring the Drahar’s cries, the two men detached the ropes from the wall hooks. Grasping the ends, they forced him onto his knees, an ominous prelude to what lay ahead.
As the sense of doom encroached upon him, Ely's gaze fell upon the copper bracelet encircling his wrist, a symbol of his subjugation and helplessness. This repugnant band marked him as a foreign in this realm, stripping him of any chance at power. The elders' advice to stay inconspicuous, to bow their heads for survival, now seemed like the last turn of the lock. Survival at such a cost is no life at all. They were more than the humiliation, the slavery, the scrabbling for scraps they were reduced to.
His pleas ceased abruptly, catching his captors off guard. They halted, taken aback by the young Drahar's transformation. Ely's gaze, once fearful, now burned with unspoken hate. His eyes alone screamed a silent promise of retribution.
The captors, trying to mask their unease, doubled down on their resolve.
Meanwhile, unnoticed by all, a dark purple mist began to seep from Ely's hand, dulling the sheen of the copper bracelet. The men held him still as the blindfolded figure, a Priest of the Chains, approached. Such priests traded their sight for the divine power of forging unbreakable bonds.
The Priest affixed a copper choker around Ely's neck, its clasp clicking shut - a sound that resonated like a death knell in Ely's ears, plunging him deeper into despair.
The blindfolded man began his chant, invoking his patron's power to seal the choker, and with it, Ely's fate. The ritual was meant to enslave him, stripping away the last threads of his freedom. While such an act required Council authorization, reserved for serious crimes, these men had no regard for law or justice, and the Council seldom pursued such transgressions.
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
Then, the priest's incantations were abruptly halted by the sound of a lock snapping open, followed by the metallic clatter of something hitting the floor. Ely, momentarily stunned, felt an unfamiliar lightness as the weight that had long represented his oppression vanished. The chains that had tethered him to a life of suffering were inexplicably gone, leaving him staring at his bare wrist in disbelief.
Shock registered on the faces of everyone in the room, their eyes fixed on the freed wrist. The blind priest, too, turned towards the sound, his senses attuned beyond sight to the magi that should have been unbreakable. Yet, it had shattered, disrupting the ritual and scattering the priest's concentration.
The man who had brought Ely here staggered back, releasing his grip on the rope. “No, this can't be happening,” he gasped, disbelief all over his face. “This is impossible.”
The grip of the man holding the other rope loosened in shock. The room became a scene of confusion, but Ely's survival instinct was the quickest to react. He leaped back, wrenching free from the remaining captor's grasp, and slammed against the wall, his mind racing with escape plans.
This sudden movement jolted the captors from their stupor. The two men ignited the magi within them, moving with lethal intent to recapture or perhaps even kill Ely. The unprecedented event had sparked fear; they couldn't risk the Drahar escaping alive.
Ely, realizing their murderous intent, dove and rolled towards the door. Devoid of magi, he relied on his years of agility honed by tomb raiding, his body moving with practiced ease. He didn't need to overpower them; he just needed to get away.
As his attackers lunged towards him, one with a fist glowing with gathered magi and the other brandishing a knife drawn from the shadows, they were unprepared for Ely's swift maneuver under their legs.
The empowered fist crashed into the wall, embedding itself and momentarily trapping its owner, while the knife wielder inadvertently stabbed the other man’s thigh. Agonized cries filled the room – one from the pain of the stab injury, the other from being kicked back by his wounded comrade.
Staggering towards the doorway, Ely glimpsed the light of freedom, a relieved smile breaking through his grim resolve.
"Stop!" The command from the blind priest materialized with ethereal chains, conjured from the void, wrapping around Ely and halting his escape. The door's promise of freedom seemed to slip away as he was ensnared once more, reigniting the flames of hatred in his heart. No, not again. Not after finally being freed. In a surprising twist, he whirled around and pounced on the priest.
The priest, caught off guard and fearful, lost control of his conjurations, inadvertently freeing the Drahar. With precious liberty, Ely lunged for the cleric's throat, driven by a deep desire to end the life of the man wearing the garbs that represented those who chained his people. The fury within him awakened something sinister and ancient, a power that instilled dread in those who had known the divine.
Before the priest could even scream, his life force was rapidly drained. If the room wasn’t so dark, they would have witnessed a frightening transformation: the priest’s skin turning ashen, eyes dulling, hair whitening, his very essence withering under Ely's touch.
Ely, meanwhile, felt an overwhelming surge of power flood his being. It was an ancient, malevolent force, but it invigorated him, rejuvenating every cell. His hair seemed to gleam with new luster, his bones fortified, muscles surging with untapped strength.
The searing pain from his previous injuries began to disappear, replaced by a heady rush of vitality being siphoned from the priest. Overwhelmed by the sudden influx of energy, the Drahar let out an involuntary moan, grotesquely out of place amidst the chaos.
The captor who had brought Ely here was now driven to madness, his scream echoing across the room as he tried to look away. His accomplice, on the other hand, was gripped by a primal fear. Clutching his knife with trembling hands, he lunged forward in a desperate, untrained attack.
Ely was still caught in the aftermath of the unexpected power, and couldn't react swiftly. The blade tore into him, the man stabbing repeatedly as the Drahar still held the lifeless body of the priest. Blood flowed freely from the wounds, the pain momentarily bringing Ely back to reality and prompting him to finally release the withered clerical body.
Trying to stop the onslaught of his abdomen, Ely's hand moved to catch the attacker's wrist. The moment he grasped it, the man's strength began to drain away, his knife clattering to the ground. Terrified, he tried to wrench free from the lethal grip, desperate to escape.
Baffled by the weakening effect of his mere touch, Ely felt a strange pull, as if drawing something from the man. Acting on instinct, he tightened his grip, refusing to let go. The man's screams intensified, struggling against the inexorable drain of his life force.
Ignoring his own bleeding wounds, the Drahar reached out with his other hand, intent on amplifying his grasp. The man managed to slap away Ely's advancing hand but couldn't break free from the draining hold.
Then, the desperate man attempted to summon his magi, but Ely's touch threw his efforts into disarray, disrupting any focus or technique he might have had. In the frenzy of struggle, the man's wild slaps caused Ely's wrist to snap and dislocate. The sharp pain registered dimly in his mind, overshadowed by a singular focus on retribution. Even the blood gushing from his wounds couldn't stop him.
As the relentless grip continued, the man's strength visibly diminished, his body buckling under the draining force. When Ely finally secured his other hand around the man, the transformation was swift. The man's body collapsed, devoid of life, while Ely felt an intoxicating surge of energy. The bleeding stopped, his wounds visibly closing, and even the dislocated wrist realigned itself.
With the man reduced to a lifeless husk, Ely let the withered body fall. He stood, a wicked smile playing on his lips, intoxicated by the power coursing through him. They made me beg, now I’ll make them beg.
He screamed at the cowering man in the corner. "Look at me, filth!" His words echoed those once hurled at him, a twisted pleasure in their reversal.
Ely advanced slowly towards the terrified man, each step a deliberate echo in the silent room. "Beg, filthy thing, and maybe I’ll spare you," he intoned ominously.
The man's screams filled the room. "This isn’t happening. It can’t be real. It’s impossible."
"Beg, and maybe I'll make you my slave," Ely spat, his voice dripping with venom as he closed in on the man.
"No, please, go away. Leave!" the terrorized man pleaded.
For a fleeting moment, Ely contemplated mercy, a kindness they would never have shown him. But then, the man's words struck him, reigniting the flames of his anger. "Leave, filth. You people should never have come to our land. You are cursed!"
Any thoughts of mercy evaporated, replaced by burning hatred. "Filth like you doesn't even deserve to serve. You can only die," Ely declared coldly.
With that final decree, Ely drained the life from his last captor. Freedom was his, but it was more than that – he now possessed a power strong enough to make those who oppressed his people tremble.